A Candle Burned Through
by CornishGirl
Summary: (Tag to 10x23, "Brother's Keeper.") Death, summoned by the only man who could, offered an answer. But Dean could not reap his brother. Yet eighteen months of playing host to the Mark of Cain takes its toll.


**A Candle Burned Through**

* * *

He stared at his brother, at his baby brother, whose face was bloodied from his own fists. He recalled it clearly, the surging strength, the overwhelming power, the cold rage that broke over his head like an ocean, drowning him in nothing but the need to _hurt_ Sam, to _destroy_ Sam, to _kill_ Sam. It had lived in him, driven him, ever since Charlie's death. Finally, finally, he had tipped over the edge, had fallen, and the Mark had won the race. The marathon was complete. Nearly all of Dean was banished, replaced by nothing but the rawness of a power that was wholly otherworldly, because it wasn't born of earth.

But Death was dead. Death was gone.

 _Sam was alive_.

God, but he wanted to hug him. He wanted nothing so much as to pull his brother close, to wrap him up in his arms, to squeeze so tightly that Sam's vertebrae popped, something that had always amused Dean when they were young. He used to grab the skinny little shrimp and hug him hard just to hear the pops, the protests, to feel Sammy's squirms.

How long had it been since they'd shared a simple hug?

But he couldn't. He just . . . couldn't. He stared at Sam, and he knew it, felt it in himself, felt it surge and break over him. Once again, the guilt. All the saving of Sam he had done, all the rescuing, all the protecting over thirty-two years . . . was nothing. Nothing offset what he had nearly done but minutes before.

Death's scythe, in his hands.

Brother's Reaper.

He turned away, hiding from his brother the grief, the guilt, the remorse. He had been other than himself for so long now, hag-ridden by the Mark of Cain. And there it was yet, still branded into his arm: the raised, red shape, the First Curse, set into his own living flesh.

 _Nothing_ was solved. Nothing was resolved. He still bore the Mark.

Nothing at all was changed.

And yet everything was.

But Sam was alive. Once again, Sam had broken through the terrible barrier built up by the Mark, through the distance, the denials, when he had been demon; the rage and fury that had engulfed him utterly when he saw Charlie's body. He had said terrible things as a demon in the dungeon; terrible things as the Mark rode him hard at the funeral pyre.

But now? He saw the look in Sam's eyes as he answered "I'll live," when he very nearly hadn't.

 _'_ _You traded my life.'_

And he had. He had.

When once before he had traded his own to bring Sammy back from Death; had tricked Sam into allowing a rogue angel to inhabit his body.

God, but he had been so lost for so long.

And still was lost. The Mark remained.

 _I'm still a monster. I'm still . . ._

 _Evil._

He turned away from Sam because he couldn't face him.

It was as he sorted through the duffel that he heard the sound, the alien wailing screech from overhead. He turned, looked at his brother. "That sound right to you?"

And then the lightning burst through the roof, blazed a pathway to his arm, buried itself in the Mark.

The pain was exquisite. Dean could only issue a garbled, strangled outcry. It came out on a blurt of shock, of agony, that dropped him to his knees. All he could do was kneel there, clutching the outstretched arm, emitting an incoherent cry of sheerest pain.

 _It's going to explode me_ —

Was that a bad thing?

He had told Cas, _'Knife me, smite me, throw me into the freakin' sun . . .'_

He had killed Death. Was this Death's revenge? To light up the Mark, to destroy him once and for all?

Perhaps that might be a very good thing. Because whatever evil was in him, whatever the Mark had done to ravage his soul, remained intact.

The lightning, mated with the Mark, set his arm afire from the inside out, and it glowed like levin fire. The Mark rose up on his arm, rose to meet the lightning. _He_ was the battlefield. And he would be collateral damage if the battle continued.

 _Maybe . . . maybe that's what needs to happen._

He wanted to call out to Sam, but could not. He was pinned there on his knees, lost to pain and shock and astonishment and a terrible fear. If he died—if he died . . . if the Mark prevailed . . .

The glow on his arm was incandescent.

Then the Mark writhed, seemed almost to scream, and it was torn away by the bolt of lightning that shot back up through the breached roof.

 _Torn away_.

The burning in his arm continued unabated for a moment longer, and then the light in his flesh faded. The flame subsided. His arm was naked. Was unmarred, unblemished, _unMarked_ flesh.

In disbelief he rubbed fingers against it. Felt nothing more than skin.

A shudder ran through him. Could he be . . . free?

Was it even possible?

Sam had said it was. That they would find a way.

And they had.

He was _free_.

The weakness came up abruptly, without warning. He toppled forward, remained upright only by thrusting stiff arms against the floor. He braced himself on hands and knees, hung there panting, releasing noisy staccato gusts and gulps of air.

And Sam was there, hands closing on Dean's shoulders. "Are you okay? Dean—you okay?"

This time Sam pulled _him_ to his feet. Disoriented, Dean nodded, still out of breath, and displayed his forearm. "It's gone." He looked up, met Sam's widening eyes. Those familiar, soulful eyes that only moments before had been awash in tears, in the acceptance of sacrifice.

 _God, Sammy, what I almost did_ —

But he hadn't. He hadn't.

The first hint of something bordering on euphoria bubbled up. "It's _gone_ , Sammy."

 _I'm free—I'm free—I'm free_

The breath came fast and hard now, rasped in his throat. Over a year. Well beyond a year. So much time. And all because of Crowley, because of Abaddon, because of Cain—

No. Because of _his own_ stubborn recklessness, his constant unwillingness to look beyond the _now_ to the _later_ , to the small matter of _consequences._

The consequences that had turned him into a killing machine, had robbed him of judgment, of the ability to parse out right from wrong, when he'd always been so certain of such things. Consequences that, murdered by Metatron, meant he'd resurrected as a _demon_. As the very thing they killed.

 _I'm free—I'm free—I'm free_

He had told Sam to stop. Had summoned up what remained in him of their father, the memory of John Winchester, and _ordered_ Sam to stop the quest to find the answer.

But Sam had never listened to their father much when he'd set his mind on a thing. Why would he do differently now?

Sam's hand slid up, cupped the side of Dean's neck. It was a hug of sorts, the small gesture of affection and solidarity. He saw in Sam's eyes the look that said he, too, wanted more. But what Death had said, the tale Death had told—

"We need to go," Dean said sharply. He grabbed his duffel, headed toward the door. Sam was a step behind him.

Outside, the day was a day. They hesitated.

"This is good, Dean," Sam said. "This is good. The Mark is off your arm. Nothing crazy happened." His relief, his burgeoning joy, was palpable. He pulled the keys from his pocket, held them out. "You got your baby back."

The back of Dean's neck prickled. "Yeah." He gazed around, searching for something, anything to indicate what his instincts were telling him, why he felt wrong and on edge. His voice sounded hollow even to him. "I'm sure everything's perfectly fine."

Weakness washed across him. He blinked hard, steadying himself.

Sam reached out, gripped his shoulder. And then a scream and a hiss arced out of the sky, shot down from the heavens to collide with the earth. The air stank of smoke and ozone and, oddly, of heat and cold, of ice and fire. Of destruction. Of death.

Of Death.

"What the - ?" Sam began blankly. And more lightning lanced from sky to earth. "What did Death call this?"

Dean looked around. _Oh crap, oh crap_ . . . _it's coming, it's coming._ "The Darkness."

And it was his doing, as the sky began to fall. It was like meteors all over, slicing down to pierce the earth. The air screamed with it. He felt it in his ears, felt it inside his head. Death had said the mark was lock and key, and now it was gone.

And then the ground erupted. Gouts of blackness shot out of the earth and arced upward into the skies like surface-to-air missiles. All around them the air crackled and shrieked and screamed. And where the blackened missiles landed, where they arched back out of the heavens and struck hard into the soil, the earth opened its maw and vomited clouds of Darkness.

"Get in the car," Dean blurted.

"Yeah -"

"Let's go— _let's go_ —"

They yanked doors open, piled in. Dean stuffed the key into the ignition, cranked it over, and Baby roared to life. He threw the gearshift into reverse, floored the accelerator, sprayed gravel and dirt as the Impala lurched backward.

And he dropped her into a hole. Dropped her into something that felt like the Grand Canyon.

Darkness coiled, quested. Began to roll across the earth.

Dean shoved the gearshift into Drive and floored it again. But there was no purchase. That left rear tire spun impotently, kicking up water and gravel. He threw open the door, trying to see what he might do to get the tire to bite.

"Dean!" Sam snapped.

Darkness was close. Dean pulled himself back inside the car, slammed closed the door.

 _"_ _Dean!"_

He heard the metallic shriek, saw the massive sign in the middle of the lot crash down near the Impala. Saw the rolling storm of Darkness surge forward yet again.

"Sammy—" He reached out, caught Sam's left shoulder, locked his hand into the fabric of the jacket. Tugged at him, tried to bring him closer. "Sammy— _hold on!"_

Sam's hand closed around Dean's forearm. He followed the urging of the hand in his jacket. Dean yanked at him, then loosed the fabric, shifted his grip, caught the back of the collar, pulled harder yet.

"Sammy—"

Sam tilted close, following the pressure of the arm, following the unspoken order to take shelter with his brother; and it was like they were _kids_ again, Dean pulling his baby brother to him while all around them the monsters surged. He'd protect him; he always protected him, he kept the world at bay; he fought the monsters off, let no one and nothing harm his baby brother. Nor would he now.

 _"_ _Dean!"_ Sam cried, and even as Dean placed a sheltering hand against the back of his brother's head, as he himself ducked, the Darkness came down upon them.

* * *

# # #

He wasn't certain, at first, that he still breathed. But his mouth tasted of grit and blood and bile, and that, he didn't believe, was a part of death.

 _Could_ they be dead? With Death apparently gone—could anyone be dead?

Or had he merely destroyed a vessel, and Death would take on another?

He felt warmth upon his brow. A stickiness. His head ached abominably.

No, he wasn't dead. He didn't think dead people felt anything.

Weight leaned against him. He realized he could not open his eyes, that they were stuck together by something tacky. He drew out his right hand from under the weight, intending to clear what sealed his eyes closed, and realized it was a body slumped against him.

"Sam? _Sammy_?"

He felt with his right hand, touched the clothing, found the cheek. He couldn't _see_ , dammit! But he felt the flesh, felt the warmth of it. Normal warmth, neither the chill of death nor the heat of fever.

In a spasm of desperate helplessness, in the drive to see his brother, he spat into the palm of his left hand, swiped it against his left eye. Tried to dampen, loosen the tackiness he knew was blood. Finally he set fingers to lashes and peeled away the stickiness. And finally he was able to crack that one eye, though the other remained stubbornly closed. His vision was blurred, but he blinked it clear.

"Sammy?"

Blood filmed Sam's face. He'd already borne the remains of the damage Dean - that the Mark - had done, but this was more. A gash across the bridge of his nose had spilled blood all down the bottom part of his face.

But he was breathing. He was _alive_.

"Sam . . . come on, Sam—wake up. Wake up." He patted the side of the blood-smeared face with fingers pressed together, smacking it lightly. "C'mon, Sammy."

He winced then, because a twinge of sharp pain lanced through his head. And his chest ached. As he roused to clarity, so did his body to pain.

He dropped his hand to Sam's chest. He started to thump it, but realized that possibly Sam was injured. Instead, he pressed against the flesh below his neck, above the first closed button of his shirt, and rubbed.

"Sam. Sam, come on. Sammy?"

Through the one eye he saw they remained within the Impala. He was behind the wheel as he was so often; as he had been as they sought to flee the Darkness. He saw, too, that the Impala was no longer stuck in a hole in front of the cantina, but had been thrust—or thrown, or hurled—into the bar's front door. In fact, she was sitting on the diagonal, her front end cradled on either side by the doorjamb.

No wonder Sam's body was piled against Dean's. The car wasn't level. She rested a-tilt, only the wheels on her left side in contact with the ground.

 _Aw, Baby. All banged up again._

And he'd fix her up again.

But he needed to fix Sam first.

He pressed his hand against the ordinary warmth of Sam's chest in the midst of a wholly extraordinary day and felt his brother breathe. His relief was overwhelming.

 _"_ _Sam."_

And Sam moved.

"Sammy, c'mon." He rubbed his brother's flesh again, pressing against bone. "Sam."

Sam swiped out suddenly with his right arm. His flailing hand connected with Baby's dash, and then as he moved he planted a sharp left elbow into Dean's ribs.

The grunt was expelled with air. "Shit, Sammy— _ow_. Come on—you back among the living? Can you sit up?"

But the car was on a tilt, and even as Sam attempted to slide aside, as he pulled away from Dean's hand, gravity brought him back close his brother's side.

"Dean?"

"Hey. It talks. Words and everything." Dean really wished he could open his other eye. The left eye was blurry again. His forehead felt stiff, the flesh partly immobile because of dried blood. "You okay?"

"Shit. My nose feels like it's broken." Sam's tone was slightly thick, as if he had a cold.

Dean was coming to realize that it felt like his _head_ was broken. "Sam—we need to get out of the car. But I'm not going anywhere until _you_ go somewhere, because my door is jammed up against the building. Can you check out the passenger door? Can you climb out?" He paused. "Are you okay, Sam? Any injuries beyond your nose?"

Sam had shifted as much of his weight off Dean as he could. He stared out through the tilted windshield, then extended a hand, leaned forward, traced the starring in the glass. "I think that was my face." He touched the gash on his nose. "Man."

Dean felt a tightness in his chest. "Sam, can you climb out? I'm verging on claustrophobia, here."

It wasn't that. Not really. But tension, yeah. He needed to get out of the car, get out from behind the wheel, find room to move. See to his baby, who sat aslant and trapped in the door to a cantina in foreclosure, where he had summoned Death.

Where he had thought to kill his brother.

 _Why? Why on earth would I ever think I needed to kill Sammy?_

It felt like a movie. It felt like he was on the outside looking in. It felt like he had watched someone else, someone who wore his face, his clothing, his Mark—

 _His_ Mark.

God to Lucifer. Lucifer to Cain. Cain to Dean Winchester.

Holy crap, but what kind of a genealogy was that?

Cain had called him 'worthy.'

At the time, it had been expediency. A means to an end. Abaddon was stealing human souls, creating an army to take over the world. Crowley wanted her dead to get his kingdom back in its entirety; Dean doubted the King of Hell cared about what Abaddon might do to the world topside. But if Dean killed her, he served two purposes. And that was why it had seemed the best-case scenario. Cain had him at 'kill the bitch.'

He looked again at his forearm. Unblemished. UnMarked.

He was free of it.

"Okay," Sam said, "I'm gonna give it a try. Sorry in advance if I kick you in the head. Not that it'll do any damage."

He supposed it was good that Sam was attempting to banter, despite the fact it was a completely and utterly lame-ass attempt.

 _'_ _This is me pulling your lame ass out of the fire.'_

But Cain had been wrong. In that barn, as they fought. Cain had said his story would end the way his began: killing his brother. Crowley first. Then Cas. Finally, Sam.

It had nearly gone the other way.

Sam shifted his feet, tried to find purchase. He gripped the seatback, the dash; shoved one foot into the crease between seatback and seat, shoved the other against the hump of the driveshaft beneath the carpeted floorboard.

His brother had freakin' big feet.

Sam braced himself, reached up, caught the door handle. Dean saw the boot stuffed into the seat crease begin to slide and grabbed it, locked his hands around Sam's ankle to provide some upward pressure.

Sam grasped at the door handle, pulled it. The latch engaged. He shoved hard at the door, as if throwing open a manhole cover. The angle was bad; the slant and gravity nearly dropped the door back down. But Sam kept his arm extended, shoved again. Baby's hinges creaked and groaned.

Dean smiled. _Some things never change_.

And he blessed that. In a world without Death, in a world where Darkness had come, Baby's voice was welcome indeed. It anchored him.

 _As much as Sammy does._

Sam gripped the door frame, pushed hard against the floorboard and seat. Dean boosted as best he could. His brother scrambled up, somehow managed to lever himself up through the door. Sam was strong, so strong . . . sometimes it took him by surprise. It shouldn't. He'd been living with adult Sam for most of ten years now, absent the year when Sam was in hell and when he himself was in purgatory; had gotten over his shock of discovering that even after he'd left for Stanford, Sam had experienced another growth spurt. That brief scrambled moment of hand-to-hand in the living room of the apartment Sam shared with Jess had proved that no, Sam was not rusty—and that the extra inch or two also equaled another ten pounds. And after _that_ , Sam had changed yet again, had worked on adding muscle.

Sam was up and out. He folded his big body down and perched upon the side of the car like a bird of prey, one hand gripping the door frame to hold himself steady atop a crooked car. He reached down with his right hand. "Come on. Grab hold."

Dean began to disentangle his boots from the pedals. He was still one-eyed, vision blurring in his left. His head pounded and his chest—well, he had a pretty good idea he'd done a rib-plant against the steering wheel. He didn't think anything was broken or cracked—he knew what that felt like—but likely he was working on an impressive set of bruises. And it would explain why the simple act of breathing hurt.

After fumbling around to find purchase, he balanced, reached up and clasped Sam's hand, palm-to-palm, thumbs locked. Sam pulled and he climbed partway up. Then he gestured Sam aside with his head. "You'll need to get down. There's not room for both of us up there."

Sam let go, and Dean heard him drop down. Then he locked his grip onto the door frame, boosted himself up, used arms and upper body strength to force himself up and over the door frame. Unlike Sam, he didn't manage it with any particular efficiency; partway through the motion his strength wavered and he ended up sprawled belly-down across the tilted frame. He slid around, worked his legs off the frame, dangled a moment, let himself go.

He'd intended to land with knees bent, prepared for the impact. It wasn't that long a drop. But something gave as he landed. Everything simply—stopped. And he went down hard onto his knees, toppled forward, damn near did a face-plant. Only an elbow thrust out kept him from smacking his head into the concrete floor.

"Dean!" Sam knelt down, one hand touching his back. "Dean?"

He couldn't help the warmth of embarrassment from rising in his face. "Well, _that_ went well." He tried to get up, tried to pull his limbs under himself to rise.

And couldn't.

He was completely conscious. He wasn't on the verge of passing out. He wasn't ill, and his injuries—a bang on the head, a bruised chest—were negligible. But he could do no more than twitch his limbs, scrabble vaguely at the concrete with strengthless fingers.

"Dean, hey—"

His head felt like an indescribably massive weight on the end of a neck much too weak to hold it up. After a moment he gave up trying, let his forehead rest against a bent arm.

Sam was talking. Was saying something. But it was just noise, disjointed and confusing. He didn't try to understand it. It ran around inside his head, but nothing stuck.

And then Sam's hands were on him, turned him over onto his back. He felt Sam's hands reach under his arms, catch him just below the shoulders, and then his brother actually _dragged_ him.

 _'_ _This is me pulling your lame ass out of the fire.'_

"Sammy . . . what?"

Sam pulled his lame ass under the tilted frame of the Impala, ducked down low to protect his head from the encroachment of the right front tire. Then they were back inside the cantina. Sam turned him, pushed and prodded, finally leaned his torso up against the wall. His head thumped back against it.

"Let me look at your eyes . . .well, wait. Let me get water from the car. Too much dried blood over the one." Sam was gone. Was back. He wet a bandanna, began to sponge gently at Dean's right eye. Muttered an apology as Dean sucked in a breath. "It's from a cut on your head. There's no damage around your eyes. Okay, let me look." He thumbed back heavy lids, scrutinized, then nodded and patted Dean briefly on top of his head, like he was maybe three years old. "Pupils are fine. You hurt anywhere else?"

"Bunged up," Dean muttered. "Nothin' much. Really. I'm just . . . " He thought about it. Had no answer. None at all. "Lemme up. I need up." And he tried, he really tried; what the hell was he doing sitting on the ground all slumped against the wall? "We gotta go—" And he tried again, doubled up his legs, pressed against braced arms, levered himself upward onto one knee . . .

. . . and pitched head-first into Sam's chest.

It felt like—it felt like when he _died_ , after Metatron stabbed him. As Sam held him. Everything stopped, and his bones turned to crumbling chalk, and his flesh was inert.

Sam caught him again, as Sam had done then. Sam held him up, took his weight, cradled his head in both broad hands, looked into his face with stricken eyes. "Hey. _Dean_."

He wasn't dead. He didn't recall that part after the stabbing, just that instant when everything in his body stopped. This time he continued breathing, his heart still beat, his eyes still saw. But he was somehow _unraveled_.

Someone had smashed the hourglass and the sands had all run out. It had nothing to do with time, and everything to do with being _empty_.

All he could manage of Sam's name was the sibilance of the first letter.

 _Crap. What the hell?_

Maybe he _was_ sick. Maybe he _was_ hurt. Because this was . . . this was not right.

"Hey," Sam said, "I got you. I got you. Listen . . . I'm gonna lay you down a minute, get more water, some energy bars from the car. Here, let me get you settled." Sam rolled him, lowered him, carefully rested his head against the floor.

Something akin to panic kindled.If Sam went out into the Darkness . . . "What's it like out there?" _  
_

"It's clear. It just looks normal. Hold on."

When Sam came back he had the promised water and energy bars. He settled himself against the wall so his back had support, and then he maneuvered his brother so that Dean's head lay atop a firm thigh. He levered it up with one hand, offered him water with the other.

Dean couldn't muster the strength even to swallow, and the water spilled out of his mouth to dampen his shirt. Tremors ran through his body.

"You've got to try," Sam insisted. "A little, okay?"

He did try. Got some down this time.

 _Can't move . . . can't freakin' move . . ._

But shake, yes. That he could do.

He heard the crinkle of torn paper and foil. "Can you take a bite?"

He could not. Even that was somehow beyond him.

"Then rest for a bit, okay? Just rest. We'll try more water later. And you'll have to eat some of this, Dean. I think I know what's going on."

Dean swallowed. Made a great effort and managed a few words. "No . . . beauty sleep?"

"No, you moron. It's the Mark. Or, it's the _lack_ of the Mark. A year-and-a-half, man. You've been riding that pure adrenaline high for _eighteen freakin' months._ But not now. Not any more. Whatever _power_ it gave you is gone. You burned the candle at both ends, and it finally met in the middle. You're crashing. It's like a mashup of all the worst hunts we've ever been on, quadrupled. I've seen how you get when you push past your limits, Dean . . . I've seen how you just bulldoze through everything and leap off the cliff. And when you hit the wall, you hit it freakin' hard. That's what this is. Eighteen months worth of cliffs and walls."

"Any more mixed metaphors, College Boy?"

But he thought Sam might be right. He wasn't sick. He wasn't injured badly enough for this kind of complete and utter physical collapse. He maybe, probably . . . yeah, he _was_ just what Sam said: a candle burned through. All the wax was melted.

He wanted to pat Sam's arm. But it was too difficult to lift his own, to reach up. "How's your nose?"

Sam's smile was half-grimace. "Got a headache. It'll fade."

"We got stuff in the car."

"I pulled the duffel out. First aid kit's right here. You want something?"

Dean rolled his head a little in negation. "Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"How'd you do it? The spell?"

"It was Cas and Crowley and Rowena. And Charlie. She cracked the Codex. Crowley went off to get the ingredients—I guess he found them all."

He had to ask it. "If you knew they were that close . . . why the hell did you _agree_?"

"To die?" Sam looked away, brows knitted. Dean saw the shine of moisture in his eyes, but no tears fell. When he looked back, when he met his brother's gaze, he just shook his head a little. "I couldn't know that the spell would work. And you were so close . . . _so close_ , Dean. I thought I'd lost you. I truly did. It was like when you were the demon . . . and I thought if this was the cure, me dying; if this was the only certainty that we could stop the Mark . . . " He shrugged. "I told you something once. And I was wrong. I _understand_ why you let Gadreel in. I _understand_ why you tricked me into saying yes. I _understand_ why you made the crossroads deal. I understand why you stopped me from completing the trials. You couldn't let me go. Not for any reason. And I learned, in this past year, that I couldn't let _you_ go. I told Charlie that. That's why—that's why I kept on looking for the cure even when you told me to stop, even when it cost us Charlie—" He broke it off, and the tears welled, fell.

He tried to say something, tried to find the words to say he knew his brother had made sacrifices, too. But Sam ignored him and continued.

"I was wrong, Dean, when I said that in the same circumstances, I wouldn't save you. Because I had to. I had to. And I'd do it again. I'd do it one hundred times over. I know that you've always felt you aren't worth saving, but that's utter crap, Dean. Whatever has driven you to make all those sacrifices to save me and everyone else . . . well, I get it now. I do. I didn't know if the spell would work, or if it would work in time. If this was the way to save you and to save those endangered by the Mark—well, I was willing. How the hell could I say no? How the hell could I do less than what Dad asked you to do all those years ago? Save me—or kill me. Maybe I just wanted to be the man he always wanted me to be, the good soldier. Maybe I just wanted to be my big brother. Maybe I just wanted to be good enough for Mom, and for Dad, and for _you_. Finally. But mostly . . . I just couldn't do it again. Live without you in the world. I did it when you were in hell. In purgatory. When Gabriel killed you. Too many times, Dean. And I can't do it again. I'd rather _not_ be in the world, than be in it without you."

Dean lay there with his head upon his brother's leg, the warm, living leg of the man once a boy, once a baby, whom he had carried from a burning house, had vowed to protect.

And he wept.

Sam stroked back the blood-stiffened hair from his brother's head. Said nothing, because nothing was required. Gave comfort in the Winchester way, speaking without words. They were not in general touchy-feely, not chick-flicky. But now and then, now and then . . .

Yes.

Dean reached up, closed his fingers around Sam's wrist. Held it. Just held it.

Finally he said, "I'll take that energy bar now."

"Sure." Sam bore him up so his head was lifted enough to chew and swallow. Dean's hand trembled as he attempted to take the bar from Sam's hand, so they compromised and held it together, hand steadying hand. Then Sam offered water again, and he drank it.

"So," Dean said, "there's that whole Darkness thing . . . "

"Yeah?"

"Gotta get my strength back."

"Well, yeah."

"'Cuz, Sammy . . ."

"Yeah?"

"We got work to do."

* * *

 **~ end ~**


End file.
